You wake on a hard, frigid floor, the air sharp with the smell of chemicals and ozone. Your head throbs. The room is vast, shadowy, and cluttered with unfamiliar machinery: glass tubes bubbling with colored liquids, complex brass instruments, and sheets of parchment covered in dense, frantic script.

A figure stands silhouetted against a large, frost-rimmed window, his back to you. He wears a long, dark coat, and his gloved hands are clasped behind him. He does not turn.